


He Ensured It

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Gen, Let's Write Sherlock, What happened in Florida, ignores series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on what might have happened in Florida</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nobody and nothing. No disrespect is intended. No Money is made.
> 
> -Not Beta read or brit-picked
> 
> This is my first (even remotely postable) attempt at on-purpose multi chapter fic. I am sorry for posting a WIP that isn't quite finished yet, but will do my level best to keep the implied promise I've made by posting it.

Martha Hudson clicked her tongue in disgust and turned off the television. The press was the same everywhere, and she really didn’t know why it surprised her. Wasn’t it bad enough that these young women were being viciously murdered, without everyone destroying their characters on the television and in the papers? And yes, Tansy had an unusual name. Was a woman with three young children by two different men. The reports carefully left out her actual position in security, letting the readers assume what they would of ‘worked at Classy Damez Niteclub’. What the press wasn’t talking about was how she’d scrimped and saved, done various odd jobs for Martha and other neighbors, so her babies could have new shoes and backpacks for school. Children who Martha had enjoyed minding from time to time, now sent away to live in emergency foster care. Four lives ruined, dozens of others soiled, and Tansy just the latest victim of what the police had finally admitted was probably a serial killer. 

She pulled open the blinds on the patio window; it was nice to finally be able to do so. For days, various reporters and photographers had been camped along the road, hoping for a picture of Tansy's family or a few salacious words from her neighbors. The benefit of a small complex, and only one of the two buildings being in use, was a loyal community who weren't interested in talking out of turn. The sunlight seemed to create a pathway that she followed across the living room and into the open kitchen. From the fridge she collected the makings for a salad, and a container of leftover soup. William didn’t always come home for lunch, but he had afternoon meetings today. He’d want to change out of his grubby work clothes before meeting with potential clients. How lucky, she thought, that she’d married a man with a building company. She’d dreaded having to manage the renovations herself, but William had stepped in and drawn up the plans, explained the costs and timetables, and set to work. 

He’d brushed off her thanks, saying “I renovate buildings, darling. What would my clients say, if they saw this place? We’ll fix it up right and tight, and it’ll be the best advertising I ever had.” 

 

The soup was hot, a frozen roll popped out of the toaster oven, and the greens had just been dressed when William tossed the day’s newspaper onto the counter and went to wash his hands. “One of the guys said there’s a great show coming up at the dinner theater. Thought I might try to get us tickets.”

Martha agreed, and several minutes were spent recalling other shows they’d seen together. 

“Did the dishwashers come in today?” The building next door was nearly ready for paint and floor coverings; all that was required was the appliances. Martha had already begun drafting the advertisement for their re-opening. 

William snarled, “Gah. Idiots at the supplier ordered the wrong ones. Gonna be another couple weeks.”

“All these delays.”

“Maybe I can finagle us a discount; that’d be something, anyway. Don’t worry, Martha. I got it covered.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We can jigger the painting schedule, put down the carpets right away I suppose. Don’t want to do the vinyl on the floors though. Don’t trust the crew not to gouge ‘em up when they do the installs.” 

“That makes sense. I really would like to open the building on time. We’ve got a good chance of filling it up if we’re ready before the next school term.”

“My Martha knows her business. And you’re right. I’ll call in the painters and the carpet guys, see if we can step them up a bit.” He ate the last few bites of soup and headed for the bedroom. “I’ve got meetings right through the evening, so no point holding dinner for me.”

She nodded, though he didn’t see, and began stack the dishwasher. The headline on his discarded newspaper caught her eye and she picked it up to read the article about the latest victim. 

“Don’t read that rubbish, darling. You’ll just upset yourself.” William regarded the picture of their late tenant. “I know you were fond of the kids, but let’s face facts. That Tansy wasn’t any better than she had to be. Easy to see she was gonna come to a bad end.”

“Oh, William. You can’t really believe that. Tansy was a sweet girl, she’d just had some bad luck. It’s not her fault those husbands left her with debt to pay and mouths to feed.”

“Bad luck? Bad choices, maybe. And now there’s three more kids in the system, gonna grow up to be just like their momma.” 

“Shame on you, speaking so ill of the dead.”

“There, see? You’ve upset yourself, just like I said.” He stroked a hand over her hair, then took the paper and stuffed it into the recycling bin. “I’ll see you late tonight.” 

She turned her cheek for his kiss and locked the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson meets a young private investigator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, no britpick. I own nobody and nothing. No disrespect is intended. 
> 
> It's possible I'll go back and make some edits to chapter one, but they are not going to impact the substance of the story. I rushed to get it out in time for the challenge deadline, but am not happy with the overall craftsmanship. 
> 
> I promise to finish this WIP, and will do everything in my power to do so in a timely manner.

Two more weeks. No dishwashers; no arrests. The press were engaged in yet another round of victim blaming. Martha couldn’t stop watching, for all she acknowledged that she shouldn’t. 

“Did you notice that all those poor girls were performers? I wonder if the police are looking at that.” She was filling William’s coffee thermos for the day.

“Performers, but not all of them the same sort, right? One was an actress. And Tansy wasn’t really a performer. Not yet.”

Martha nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Still, it’s the only thing I can see that’s in common for all of them.”

“Don’t be fanciful; it’s real life, Martha, not one of your programs. There may not be a connection, and I’m sure if the police thought it was stage life, they’d be all over it. There’d be warnings and ‘take care’ notices aimed at all the performers in the city.” He grabbed up his thermos and headed out the door. “Won’t be back for lunch today. Oh, and I got the tickets for Oklahoma. As well there aren’t warnings; wouldn’t want the show to be canceled!” 

William was right. One of the girls had been more actress than singer. It wasn’t very good, as links go. And of course, William was right. There might not be any more connection than being alone in the wrong place. Catching the wrong eye. But it wouldn’t be dismissed, this idea that she’d identified the connection that was eluding everyone else. It churned in her thoughts as she mechanically performed her morning tasks. After she’d put away the dishes and run the hoover, she got out the old newspapers and began making a list.

 

**Polly Goldsmith, blond (natural), white, British National, student of marine biology, 20 years old, sang at a local Italian restaurant**

**Lydia Bruen, auburn, white, American, worked at a bank, 23, sang in a long standing community choir, killed a few weeks after receiving favorable reviews for her solos in a Schubert mass**

**Rosa Sanchez, brunette, latina, Mexican, preschool teacher, 21, member of a local theater group which had recently finished a successful run of a musical adaptation of Little Women**

**Tansy Phillips, dyed black hair, white, American, worked security at a local nightclub, 23, played keyboards and had been filling in with an up-and-coming jazz combo**

 

Well, that proved nothing, did it? Just that she had a foolish notion that was borne out by the newspapers. She gave a snort. Really, who did she think she was, Harriet Vane? Not old enough to be Hetty Wainthropp, anyway. Not yet. Adela Bradley, maybe. Still a long way from Miss Marple. She tucked the paper away in her pocket, and gathered her supplies. The buildings may need renovations to bring it up to current accessibility requirements, and updates for convenience and efficiency, but at least it was clean and well maintained. She may not be a brilliant and exciting amatuer detective, but neither was she an absentee landlady.

It was when she was sweeping the third floor landing that she heard it: a faint shuffling sound like someone moving furtively through Tansy’s living room. The keys had been returned to her, and nobody knew anything about relatives who would be wanting the meager furnishings left behind. But there was someone in the apartment, and that tapping was almost certainly the wand to the mini-blinds being blown against the window frame. So, someone had entered through balcony window…perhaps coming down from the roof? Someone possessed of a surplus of agility, or a deficit of self-preservation, could possibly have gone up the tree in the courtyard and gained access. Well, they wouldn’t be going out that way. The gap between railing and the next available handhold was too large, and the security doors were designed to keep people out, not in. Much easier just to brazen it out and exit the more conventional way. So, how to catch the intruder on his way out? She retreated to the next landing, to prevent them seeing her through the peephole and just staying put until she gave up. Then she began to wield her broom, conveniently keeping it between herself and the stairs. Her arms moved more vigorously as footsteps sounded above her, and then there he was. A bit over six feet tall, dark curly hair, very pale skin, painfully thin. Empty handed, and tight clothes that left little to the imagination. 

“Oh, hello.”

She nodded. “Martha Hudson. I’m the landlady. I don’t usually see strangers around at this time of day.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m a colleague of Brad’s,” he named the tenant across from Tansy. She gave him credit for doing a bit of research and having a cover story handy, although just a bit more digging would have revealed the hole in his tale. He pushed on, shaking her hand. “I’m afraid we had a bit of a late night, and Brad let me crash here. He had an early conference call. I apologize if I alarmed you.”

“I wasn’t alarmed.” She spoke firmly. “Curious, yes. I like puzzles; it’s a great failing. And you’ve set me quite a pretty one, haven’t you?”

“Have I?” His tone was innocence itself, but Martha caught the tightening around his eyes, the sharp look he cut off not quite quickly enough. 

“Yes indeed. You see, Mr. Douglas asked me to keep an eye on his place when he went out of town last week. I put that together with the fact that he doesn’t allow anyone to call him ‘Brad’, and the noises I just heard from the other apartment upstairs, and, well, there’s a puzzle. Who was in Tansy’s apartment, and how, and why?” She reached out and plucked a twig from his tangled curls. “I thought that’s how you’d got in. Why sneak in? You don’t have a notebook or camera, so you’re not from the press. And pardon me for noticing, but there’s no way you’re a souvenir hunter, because I don’t think you could hide more than bus fare in those jeans. Which I suppose means you’re an investigator, but not with anyone official or you’d have just come to me for the keys.”

The young man stared for a moment, blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Gave himself a shake, seemed to come to a decision, and pulled himself taller. Clearly, he was about to make A Declaration. Martha smiled, wondering what he could possibly be about to say. Whatever it was, was cut off by a grinding rumble from his midsection. Martha could only giggle at his deflated indignation. “I’m right. You’re a private investigator. From England. Tansy is the latest victim, but the first one was an English girl.” She laid her points out in a row, then drew a line connecting them to a final conclusion. “Which means you’re here on behalf of Polly Goldsmith’s family. I can’t say I blame them; the police certainly haven’t any answers.”

“You decided all that because I’m not carrying a camera?” 

“It makes sense. Now, do you have any identification?”

He reached into his back pocket, offered his passport. “You, Mrs. Hudson, are a marvel.”

The document gave his name as Sherlock Holmes, and his residence as London. Martha tucked it into her cardigan pocket

“Mr. Holmes. I suppose you were hired by Cyrus Goldsmith?”

“I am investigating the death of Polly Goldsmith. How I came to be doing so is a bit more complicated.”

She looked him over carefully, nearly giggled when his stomach growled again. “How long has it been since you’ve had a proper meal? Or even a decent cup of tea?”

He quirked a half-smile. “I have been fortunate to find excellent coffee in any number of establishments. Drinkable tea, however, seems not to be found on this side of the Atlantic.”

“You just haven’t been looking in the right places. Come along, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll tell you whatever I can about Tansy Phillips. And make you a proper cup of tea, as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of a beautiful friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter one for disclaimers, notes. 
> 
> I promise to finish this WIP.
> 
> GUYS. I AM SO SO SO SORRY. Somehow when I posted this I missed almost half the text. Lord and Lady, no wonder I hated it when I re-read it. It's fixed now. SLOW DOWN, Kestrel.

Once she had him seated at her kitchen table and the kettle was steaming merrily on the stove, Martha waved an expectant hand at her guest.

“The Goldsmiths didn’t exactly hire me,” he explained. “My brother holds a minor position in the Diplomatic Service, and Cyrus Goldsmith works for him. Cyrus can’t come over himself for various reasons, so they sent me to look around.”

Martha smiled as she poured hot water into the teapot and swirled it around to warm the porcelain. The newspapers had been all over Polly Goldsmith’s background; if Sherlock’s brother was Cyrus Goldsmith’s superior, he didn’t occupy a ‘minor position’. The lie had a well-worn, comfortable sound as his claims about Bradford Douglas had not, so she let it pass unquestioned. 

“I’ve had some success with similar ventures back home.” He further explained.

“Have you now?” She carefully scooped tea from a decorative tin, poured water over all. “There, we’ll just let that brew. It’ll be nice to drink tea with someone who appreciates a properly made pot. William never lets the water come to a full boil, then steeps it long enough that there’s little difference between this, and a three year old Lipton bag.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “So, you got sent to Florida to try to find out what happened to Polly Goldsmith. And you obviously agree with the police, that her murder was related to Tansy’s, which led to you breaking into my apartment building. Did you find anything useful upstairs?”

“Possibly. What can you tell me about The Chicago Beats?”

“Oh, honestly, can you think of a more ridiculous name?” Martha opened the fridge and began assembling sandwich ingredients. The boy was far too skinny. “It was a band she filled in for, was hoping it might become a full time thing. They played Jazz. Chicago style, whatever that means.” Bread, avocado, slices of roast beef. “Do you like pickle on a sandwich, Mr. Holmes?” 

“Sherlock. ‘Mr. Holmes’ is my brother.” He frowned at the jar of pickles she held up, shook his head. “So, she wasn’t a regular member of this band?”

“No. I’m no judge, but I thought she sounded good with them. We went to one of their shows, but William said he didn’t care for the music. She filled in for them whenever she could; more often lately. She was aching to get out of that club.”

“Any particular reason?” Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. 

“Nothing sinister. Just a single mother working in that sort of club. It does raise eyebrows, even if she’s working as security. She wasn’t a dancer or barkeep, and wasn’t interested in taking ‘side jobs’, no matter what the papers like to imply.” She poured the tea while he digested that information, then laid down her list alongside his cup. “Here’s a little something I’ve come up with. If you figure in Tansy’s hopes for the band, all of the performers were involved in some sort of performing…thing.”

He pulled the list in front of himself, pinned it to the table with one long finger. His eyes flickered from side to side as he chased ideas through his head. “It’s an interesting connection you’ve drawn. The police haven’t put this together, perhaps because they didn’t know about Tansy’s musical ambitions.” He looked to her for confirmation. When she nodded, he asked “Where did you come by your information?”

“Oh,from the various news reports for the rest of them. I knew about Tansy, of course.” She plated the sandwich and carried it to the table. “I started paying attention because the first victim was British. It’s silly, I suppose, to have felt some sort of connection just because we both came here from London.”

“Sentiment is always silly. However, if that fellow-feeling has led to me sitting at your table drinking this excellent tea and eating a sandwich, I cannot begrudge it.” That charming smile again; Martha would bet any sum named that he’d been an absolute menace when interviewing the victims’ young friends.

“I didn’t invite you in because you’re British. You’re investigating the Goldsmith girl’s death, and that means you might uncover the truth about Tansy. She deserves justice. And I think you may just be the only chance she’ll have to get it. She wasn’t a bad girl, Mr. Holmes. She’d made some mistakes, had some bad luck, but she deserves better than she’s been getting.”

“Her lifestyle was unconventional.”

“That doesn’t mean she had less dignity or value. You seem a bit unconventional, yourself, breaking into buildings to snoop around, doing investigative work without a formal license. Yours is just backed up by the fact that you’re a man. And wealthy enough to fly halfway around the world to investigate the death of someone else with money.”

He stared at her. “Tansy was lucky in her friends; you are a staunch defender. But save your ferocity; I am investigating ALL of the deaths. I may have come over initially at the behest of Cyrus Goldsmith and my brother. But Polly was not the only victim. The police have overlooked Tansy Phillips, but I have not and I am now in possession of information that may well be critical to the case. Only by considering all of the victims can I catch their killer.”

His unemotional response wasn’t exactly comforting, she supposed, but the lack of compassion for Tansy was made up by the steely determination when he spoke of catching the murderer. It would have to be enough. She startled slightly when the door lock turned over noisily and William’s voice sounded from the small hallway. “Martha? Is there any coffee on? That moron Sean left the lid off the thermos, and it’s gone cold.”

“Oh, honestly, that man. So careless.” Mrs. Hudson hurried into the kitchen and began filling the coffee maker. She smiled at Sherlock over the noise of grinding beans. “William, come into the kitchen and meet Mr. Holmes. He’s a private investigator, looking into Polly Goldsmith’s death. Sherlock, this is my husband, William Hudson.”

They shook hands, and William sat down across from the young investigator. “I suppose you want into Tansy’s apartment. I know the police think their deaths are connected.”

“You don’t think so?”

William shrugged, but there was an aggressive note to his voice when he answered. “Not really my job to think about it.” He idly picked up the scrap of paper, and looked at it. “What’s this then? Your handwriting, Martha?”

“Hmm. I know you said I should leave it alone, you thought maybe I was just being silly, but Mr. Holmes thinks there might be something to it.”

Her husband snorted. “Don’t you listen to her, my boy. She’s good at feeding up strays, but watching too much television has turned her brain. Well, look. You might just as easily say that we were in the audience for each of them, and make Martha herself a suspect. It’s a coincidence, Martha, not a clue.”

“I suppose you’re right, dear.” 

Sherlock spoke up, eyes slightly narrowed at the man of the house. “Indeed, Mr. Hudson. You say you attended the performances of each of the victims?”

“Martha likes to go out of an evening, and it’s good for my business to be seen supporting the local community. It’s not so strange.” He raised his eyes, watched as his wife filled a bag with cookies and pre-warmed the thermos with water from the kettle. 

“No, of course not. Perhaps you could tell me what you noticed about each of the girls?”

“Nope. Didn’t notice anything about them. Well, nothing particular anyway. That one at the restaurant had a set of pipes, and the one with the choir was pretty enough.” He turned back to his wife. “That’s enough coffee to fill me up; I need to be getting back. The team’s knocking off around noon, but I’ve got some stuff to do in the laundry room. I’ll be home for supper though. Pot roast?” His voice was hopeful.

Sherlock also stood. “I’ll walk out with you, if that’s alright?” At William’s grudging agreement, he thanked Mrs. Hudson for her kindness and pocketed her notes. They walked out together, William answering Sherlock’s probing questions about the building trade. 

It wasn’t until she hung up her cardigan that Martha realized she still had his passport, and no way to contact him to return it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mr. Hudson is a bigger jerk in this one. As a survivor myself, I wanted to put that out there up front. I was able to write it, and have been able to read worse, but your own mileage may vary and what's fine for one may be not fine for another. 
> 
> And he's gonna be a bigger jerk yet. But given that this is a backstory, I think I can promise that everyone we love will come through on the other side without that being a spoiler.

People watching was Martha’s favorite thing to do. After the disappointment of the dinner theater, and the upset of rowing with her husband over really nothing, it felt good to sit in the sunshine with happier lives surrounding her. How good to have an accountant who liked to hold business meetings at outdoor cafes, rather than in stuffy offices. She tended to arrive early, telling herself it was so she could go over her paperwork and have it all fresh in her mind, but she rarely actually opened the folder. So many faces, gaits, styles of dress. Her attention was caught by a recognizable figure exiting the salon opposite. Now why would Sherlock have been there? Perhaps one of the victims had been a client. Tansy had been the only one with dyed hair, but of course there were fancy cuts, manicures, wax. It could have been any of them. 

 

“Martha! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting!” The waiter held out a chair for Mitch Laughlin and rattled off the daily specials. By the time they’d ordered, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and the next hour was spent discussing renovation costs, advertising budgets, and the newest tax regulations for rental operators. 

 

It was as she was leaving the cafe that Sherlock intercepted her. “Mrs. Hudson! I didn’t expect to see you today!” He was the very picture of surprised delight, and not fooling Martha one bit.

 

“I had a business meeting. Sherlock Holmes, this is Mr. Laughlin.”

 

Sherlock gave the CPA a quick down-up-down look and offered a long-fingered hand. “A pleasure. You must be Mrs. Hudson’s accountant.”

 

“Um, yes, I am.” Mitch accepted the handshake limply, a couple loose jiggles before quickly disengaging. “Martha, I’ll leave you to it. If you’d let me know what you find out about those storage charges, that’d be great.”

 

“Yes, of course. Give my best to your wife.”

 

Sherlock watched him stride down the sidewalk, eyes narrowed in thought. “Eczema!” he proclaimed suddenly, with a relieved grin. 

 

“What?”

 

“You gave greetings to his wife, but he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Indentation on his finger though, which means it was recently removed. You’re not the type to say something hurtful, which rules out a separation or an affair. And his hand when I shook it was rough and dry. So. He’s removed his wedding ring because it aggravates his eczema.”

 

She stared at him in amusement. “Or perhaps he’s just gained a lot of weight recently, so the ring doesn’t fit anymore.”

 

“Has he?”

 

“As a matter of fact.”

 

“Hmm. Thyroid?”

 

“He’s getting it checked next week. But I don’t think you’re here because you wanted to know about an accountant with an under-active thyroid and terrible sense of fashion.” She smiled, ignored his aborted flinch when she took his arm. “There’s a chocolate shop just down the way. William likes their candied orange peel. You can explain why you’re following me while we walk.”

 

He shortened his stride automatically, scanning the surrounding traffic. “Perhaps I’m just homesick. Missing my mo…older sister.”

 

“Ridiculous boy. I’ll wager you don’t even have a sister. Mother is a fair assessment.” She’d own that, and be grateful he hadn’t gone a generation further. “I suppose the real reason is you want your passport back.”

 

He nodded, pointed questioningly to the shop two doors down.

 

“Yes, that’s it. I won’t be a tick. The bus-stop is just there at the corner.” She resolved to buy some sweets for him, too. He could do with a bit more flesh on his bones, no matter how well his jeans fit. 

 

_____

 

They spent the bus ride quietly trading off what they noticed about the other passengers and making up stories to fit their observations. Hers were fanciful and based upon what anyone might see, his lurid and drawn from minute details. He spent the two blocks between bus-stop and home observing the buildings around them and making ‘deductions’, as he called them, about the residents of her neighborhood. Mostly he was correct, and she noticed that his mistakes were based on items that only someone familiar with the local area, or with the mannerisms of Americans, would understand. She smiled fondly at his subtly guiding her around uneven paving slabs with one gentle hand on her back, at how he kept himself between her and oncoming traffic at the crossing. She’d long since given up such old-fashioned gentility as inappropriate in these progressive times. How nice that someone remembered. It felt good to laugh so easily on the walk from the stop to her building, waving at the work crew as they crossed the courtyard. He waited outside while she retrieved his passport, the file left temptingly on the picnic table. Other than the questionable bill from the appliance vendor, there wasn’t anything much to see. And it was far better he snoop at that, than at her apartment. He was too clever by half, and some things weren’t solved by a public airing. 

 

When she returned, the file was slightly askew and William was up the ladder, adjusting the outside lamps he’d installed last week. She set down a tray with lemonade and handed Sherlock his passport. She explained the bulging cover in a quiet voice, “Keys. I thought you might like another look round Tansy’s apartment. William has darts league tomorrow evening, you can bring them by then.” She poured him a plastic cup of lemonade from the pitcher while saying in a louder voice “There you are dear, I’m just going to take this over to the crew.”

 

William came down the ladder as she approached, shoved aside a clipboard and gestured for the tray to be placed on his board and sawhorse ‘desk’. She held out the sweets in their distinctively striped bag. “I got you a little treat, to say I’m sorry we quarreled. You’re right of course; Ado Annie should be sung by a soprano. An alto voice really can’t carry the songs properly.”

 

He grinned, pulled out a bittersweet morsel and popped it into his mouth. “Playing to my weaknesses, are you?” The rest of the bag was tucked into an empty pouch on his work-belt. “How’d your meeting with Mitch go? Got the budget sussed out?” 

 

“Well enough. I’ve a phone call to make though. Smith’s mixed up our billing; trying to charge a storage fee for the dishwashers they don’t even have!” She shook her head bemusedly, tensed when she caught the look on his face. “Honestly, I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Someone copied out the wrong information, hit the wrong key. I’ll call tomorrow and sort it out. For heaven’s sake, there’s no need to get angry.”

 

“Right, right. Of course. Just don’t want anyone cheating my Martha. I can call them if you like, find out what’s what?”

 

“William. That’s kind of you, but I don’t suppose they’d tell you anything. You’re taking delivery and handling the installation, but the charge is to my account. Most renovation foremen aren’t actually married to the property manager. That’s just my good luck.”

 

His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Right. You pay the bills and run the show. So. What’s he doing hanging around again?” He thrust his chin in Sherlock’s direction. “Private detective, ridiculous you ask me. Regular cops’re good enough for the rest of us but not Mr. Fancy Pants Goldsmith from London, England.”

 

Martha answered softly, “I ran into Mr. Holmes outside Victoria’s. He was kind enough to escort me home.”

 

William poured himself a cup of lemonade, chugged it down. “Kind my ass! Pumping you for information. I hope you weren’t gossipy.”

 

“No, of course not. We didn’t talk about anything to do with that. I think maybe my voice makes him less homesick.”

 

William snorted. “Homesick. Let ‘im go home then.” His voice rose as he spoke, certainly enough to carry his words to where Sherlock waited.

 

Martha’s face flamed. “William! What in the world has gotten into you?”

 

He aimed a glare at her. “I don’t like people snooping around my place, and I don’t like my wife encouraging them. You stay away from him, Martha. Stop with the handouts, and stay away from him.” He squeezed the plastic cup and threw it on the ground before marching away and slamming the door behind him.

 

She stared after her husband for a startled moment, then squared her shoulders, picked up the crushed plastic and walked slowly back to where Sherlock was idly drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I’ll apologize for William. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

 

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Hudson.” He kept his voice as low and easy, but his eyes flowed worriedly over her. He’d already proven adept at reading the signs of stress and sleeplessness, and she wondered at his silence in the face of her obvious agitation. “Darts tomorrow evening? I’ll come by around seven, if that’s convenient?”

 

Well, she couldn’t exactly renege on the deal now, could she? She’d let him have his look around. Surely there wasn’t much more to discover, and then he’d be on to other investigative trails. 

 

“Yes, seven is good. I’ll see you then. Don’t forget your peppermints, dear.” She traded the bag of sweets she’d bought him for his empty cup, and binned it along with William’s on her way into the building.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this has taken so long to write and post. I did not anticipate it taking so long to process series three. Or, more accurately, to get to a place where I could at the very least ignore it and move forward. 
> 
> Also, the previous chapter has undergone a major edit; when I posted it originally, several paragraphs were missing. Mea Culpa. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me (she said optimistically, hoping people will still read this in spite of delay).

Martha tapped her fingers against the invoice while ringing sounded in her ear. The benefit to being a repeat client was rapid resolution of such things, or so she dared to hope. 

“Smith’s Appliance Supply, Freddy speaking. How can I help you?”

“Freddy, hello. It’s Martha Hudson. I’m afraid I need to talk to you about my bill.”

Half an hour later, she closed her file folder in confusion. Freddy insisted that the dishwashers had been in the warehouse for the last six weeks, and that William had called to delay their delivery more than once. He’d offered to have copies of the relevant documentation couriered over that afternoon, and Martha agreed. She wanted to get to the bottom of what was becoming an expensive miscommunication. In the meantime, she could talk to William. The crew was on another job today, waiting out the curing of bathroom tiles, but William had listed a few fiddly one-man jobs he planned to complete before heading out. The timing was fortuitous. Her husband tended to be sensitive about ‘working for his wife’, which was ridiculous, but it was just was easy to have these sorts of conversations without an audience. With the rest of the crew off site, she could talk to him and then return to the apartment and give him an opportunity to cool off. Maybe make a special dish for lunch to show that she wasn’t blaming him for the extra expense.

Except that William was nowhere to be found in the other building. The was a deserted echo when her feet scuffed along the sub-flooring in the foyer. The tiles were setting up nicely in the bathrooms, the faint odor of thin-set nearly dissipated, but there was no sign of her husband. She made her way downstairs, fingers braced lightly against the wall where the railing was yet to be installed, and noticed the laundry room door. Odd that it had been installed when the other interior doors hadn’t, but odder still was the hefty security lock on the door. She knew she’d specifically decided against securing the laundry room, though William had argued in favor. The door yielded to the same key as the front entry, which she supposed was a compromise of sorts. 

William wasn’t here either. The walls had been painted a soft green color, and the concrete floor finished with water-resistant gray paint. Clearly, the room was being used for storage. Perhaps that explained the lock, and the blue tarps that blocked covered the windows. The remaining interior doors were stacked in one corner, and paint cans marched in an orderly line along the far wall. Tidy, just as William insisted his sites be when nobody was working. Which was why, she supposed later, her eye was drawn to the yellow toolbox half-hidden behind the pile of doors. It looked fairly new, almost garish under the harsh light of three bare bulbs. Curious as to who had left their tools here, when the crew were all at another site, she pulled it out. She almost expected it to creak and whine when she opened it, and laughed a little at herself when it swung wide without a sound. Perhaps William was right, and she should watch a bit less television. The box contained the usual array of screwdrivers, hammers, and some sort of pistol shaped tool in a holster with _W. Hudson_ scrawled across it. As she returned the top tray a flash of sliver caught her eye, and she reached in to pull out a glinting chain. The pendant it held was familiar; three interlocking hearts, one large and two smaller, securing a simple wire circle with several charms attached. Charms collected by a young mother, to commemorate important events in a life cut tragically short. Martha had admired the birthstones of Tansy’s children, the music note she’d splurged on when she’d had her first show with The Chicago Beats. The police, she recalled, had pointed it out in Tansy’s photograph, asking a few questions about when Martha had last seen it. The clasp was broken; Perhaps it had fallen off and William had found it in the other building, tucked it into his toolbox to return it to its owner. But then why hadn’t he turned it over to the police when they asked about it? Well, it was too late to return it now, but Tansy’s daughter might be glad to have it. She’d ask the police if the social worker could pass it along. Martha carefully wrapped it in her handkerchief and tucked it into her pocket before closing up the tool box and returning home to meet the courier, feeling an unaccountable relief at having the confrontation postponed. Her reprieve was to be short, however. The documentation backed up Freddy’s assertion, and Martha knew she would have to talk with William after all.

~~**~~

She waited until William had cleaned up and changed before she brought it up. “I spoke to Freddy over at Smith’s today.” She offered him the paperwork. “I’m a little bit confused, though. I thought you said they’d ordered the wrong dishwashers, that they couldn’t get the replacements in soon enough. But see, here, they’ve been in for several weeks. I’m being charged a storage fee, because of the changes in delivery date.” She pointed out the lines in question. “Do you remember what was said when you talked to them?” She was unprepared for the scowl he turned on her.

“Are you questioning my word?” His voice was quiet, then rose in volume. “Are you saying I’m a liar, Martha?”

“William! Of course I’m not! I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. It’s a fairly expensive mistake; I’d like it not to be repeated.”

“And you think it’s my fault.” He shook the papers. “You know how easy it is to make up a false invoice? Of COURSE that’s what they’ll do, as soon as they think they can take advantage of someone who isn’t smart enough to see through it.” 

She turned away and fiddled nervously with a vase of dried flowers. “I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault.” She spoke quickly, trying to calm this uncharacteristic rage. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Smith’s wouldn’t risk losing business by making false charges.”

“You’ll accept their word over mine?” His hand flashed in front of her, snatched up the vase and hurled it against the opposite wall. The crash surprised a squeal out of her, and she backed away from him rapidly.

“No! No, I’m not saying that. I’ll pay the charges; there’s overage built into the budget, after all. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, William. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question you.” She had to stop backing up when her knees met the sofa, and she sank down into herself. 

“Damn straight you’re sorry. Calling me a liar. I’m your husband, Martha. You don’t take someone else’s word over mine.” 

“No, no, of course not. I’m sorry, William.” She sat, staring at the floor, listening to his harsh breaths. Finally, he gave a tired sigh. 

“I’m going to darts league. Don’t wait up.” The door didn’t quite slam behind him, but Martha felt its closing as if it had. She stayed where she was for a long moment, fighting back tears, then began gathering the larger fragments off the sofa. It would need vacuuming to removed the smaller splinters. Really, what had she been thinking in questioning him? His temper had been so uncertain the past few weeks; she really ought to have known better. She’d just hauled out the vacuum cleaner when the knocker sounded. With a sigh, she opened the door to admit Sherlock. Unlike his previous visits, he didn’t take the chair she offered him in the kitchen but swept into and quickly scanned the living room, then pinned her with a look. “I hope the vase wasn’t of particular value.” Something dark crept into his voice then. “I am granting him the favor of assuming he wasn’t aiming at you.”

She knew better, knew he wouldn’t buy it, but she had to try. “Maybe I just dropped it.”

“Hmm, no. Impact mark on the wall, splinters on the sofa. And of course, I happened to overhear.” He gestured to the windows she’d opened to admit the evening breeze. “Why do you think I waited to come?” His hand reached out and squeezed awkwardly at her shoulder. “Does he lose his temper often?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up. I knew he was having an off day. But that doesn’t mean anything; everyone has those.”

“Yes, I suppose they do.” He offered her the keys with another searching look.

As she opened the cupboard to hang up the keys, she knocked down the wrapped necklace. “William’s temper is nothing to do with your investigation. But this might be.” She handed him the little bundle. “It’s Tansy’s necklace. I know the police were asking about it. I found it in the laundry room next door.” No need to go into precisely _where_ in the laundry room. Sherlock took the necklace, carefully examined the clasp and charms, then re-wrapped it and offered it back to her.

“I’m going to ask you to do something, Mrs. Hudson. You need to put that necklace back exactly where you found it, and never reveal to anyone that you saw it after Tansy’s death.” 

“Why on earth would I need to do that?”

“Please, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t want to go into more detail, not yet, but please believe me that being found in possession of that item could put you in danger. And will almost certainly compromise the arrest and eventual prosecution of a serial murderer.”

Her spine prickled, the balmy evening air suddenly heavy and oppressive. Martha smoothed her hair, ran a hand over the back of her neck. “Sherlock. You’re frightening me. It sounds like you think the murderer is someone…someone I know.” 

He said nothing, but those compelling eyes remained locked on hers. “Yes, alright. I’ll put it back. But Sherlock. It was in William’s tool box. If it’s true, if the killer is someone I know and someone who had access to William’s box, then that would have to mean that the killer is someone on the crew.”

“Not necessarily. The doors aren’t locked when the crew is on-site, and there are plenty of times when someone could sneak into the building. While everyone is working on an interior project, or during lunch breaks.”

“That must be what happened, then.”

“It’s one possibility. But do please put the necklace back. Tonight, if possible.”

“I could do it right now.”

“May I accompany you? It would be good to see things for myself.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just get my keys.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces are coming together, and it's not a pretty picture.

When Martha unlocked the laundry room, Sherlock raised a brow. “The other building doesn’t have such security.”

“No. I hadn’t intended this one to, either. But William does get ideas. I’m not about to start a fight over something so silly. And using the same key as the entry door makes it less of an inconvenience.” She didn’t quite convince herself.

“Hmm, yes, I suppose so. Show me where you found the necklace?” 

The single bulb cast harsh shadows, nearly hiding the toolbox. Martha didn’t remember having to reach quite so hard to pull it from behind the piled doors. “It was in here. Top compartment, under the multi-tool.”

His grin flashed and he looked up from the latex gloves he was snapping on. “You pay attention.”

“I watch too many detective programs, that’s all. Always have, really. Even when I was a girl I was always pretending to be someone. Well, never mind. It was silly then, sillier now.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear her, intent on looking through William’s box. He carefully extracted screwdrivers, a socket set, a roll of duct tape, four hacksaw blades. A set of graduated drill bits in a plastic clamshell. And beneath that, a small red book. Gold embossing flashed and Martha’s breath caught. 

“Is that my passport?” It was meant to be in the locked firebox behind the vacuum cleaner. 

“Not yours, no.” He flipped it open and nodded to himself before returning it and beginning to replace the tools in their compartments with brisk movements. “What time will your husband be home?”

“Why?”

“I've never had the opportunity to explore an actual murder room before. Wouldn't want to be disturbed by the actual killer, hmm?"

Martha stepped away, as if removing herself from the source would make the accusation less ugly. “No, no. No. William? You think it’s William? That he killed Polly, and those other girls? Just because I found Tansy’s necklace in his tool box?” Tansy, who Martha had considered a friend and of whom William had been contemptuously dismissive. 

Sherlock stood up, pushed the tool box back behind the pile of doors. His eyes roved over the room, taking in the plastic tarp that was duct taped over the window. “Tansy’s necklace didn’t get into that box by mistake. William took it after he murdered her, just as he took Polly Goldsmith’s passport. I’d wager he has other souvenirs stashed away, too. Mementos from the other girls.” Sherlock lifted the tarp and began examining it’s underside minutely, going so far as to sniff at the surface and pull back the duct tape, fingering the gluey surface to test it’s tackiness. “This tape has been removed and replaced.”

“Someone else could have put those things there.” Martha argued. 

“Indeed, they could have. Someone else could have rehung the tarp, though they’d have done better to replace it. Nearly impossible to get all the blood out.” Sherlock pointed to the seams, where the threads were discolored. “But nobody else could have delayed the completion of this building.” He strode over to the floor drain, crouched down and looked closely at the screws that held the cover on. “Blood here, too.” He stood, looked up at the hooks mounted in the cement block walls. “The clothesline hooks are worn, although you’ve not had a clothesline up in this room yet.” His face was inches from the bricks. “Tiny spatters caught in the surface.” He spun around and looked at Martha, cold and matter-of-fact. “He delayed the dishwashers because he wasn’t ready to move on. He hasn’t found a new place yet. But you started putting the pressure on him, wanted to open up the building on schedule. He was going to have to find somewhere else to do his recreational killing.” 

“No. He isn’t always a nice man, nobody knows that better than I do. But he’s not a killer. I think I’d know if my own husband was a serial killer.”

His face softened for a brief moment before he looked up and out, eyes flicking from side to side as he chased his thoughts. He nodded once and surged forward, taking her arm to propel her out the door. “Go back to your flat. Watch television. Forget this.”

Martha stared at him. “What?”

He stopped, blew out his nose impatiently. “I can go to the pay phone on the corner and call the police. It’ll be an anonymous tip, a male voice. Maybe even an American one.” He changed his accent accordingly and began propelling her across the courtyard. “They’ll have to come to you, won’t they? You’re the owner, you have the keys. Go home, Mrs. Hudson. Watch television, bake biscuits. Behave normally. If he comes home before the police come, don't provoke him.”

“William isn’t a killer. He’s not.”

“If that’s the case, you’ve nothing to fear from the police. They’ll ask him questions, he’ll give them answers, and they’ll have another lead on the real criminal.”

“Yes, alright, fine. But I don’t want you coming round anymore after this, Mr. Holmes. You stay away from me and my place.” 

Martha wrenched her arm out of his grasp and marched the rest of the way to her home, head held high. If this was a television show, she thought, here would be the final red-herring; the detective naming the wrong suspect and some final piece of evidence being discovered, clearly pointing at the actual criminal. Usually some deceptively nice-guy side character with an obscure motive. Except there was no-one else, was there? And how had Polly Goldsmith’s passport ended up- ah! Sherlock hadn’t actually shown her the name in the passport, had he? Fuming, she threw open the front closet and pulled out the hoover. The fire safe was at the bottom of a pile of shoe-boxes that she hastily began tossing aside, heedless of their contents. Heedless until the last box, largest by far, flipped open and a pair of nearly new work-boots tumbled out. Nearly new, but stained and spattered with dark brown splotches. She picked one up, not touching the spots in spite of her conviction that they were paint. Just paint, perhaps spilled by a clumsy workman and splashed over William’s feet. Up close though, there was no denying that they were more red than brown. Her eyes fell closed in sorrow and resignation, only to fly open again when she heard the sound of a key unlocking the door behind her. 

“Martha? What on earth-” William’s voice trailed off when she turned and held up the boot in silent accusation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for domestic violence*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've not updated this fic for an appallingly long time. Basically, Season 3 happened, and I fell out of love with it. And then I was so embarrassed I couldn't stand to even LOOK at the thing. 
> 
> But then there were some lovely comments. And I was inspired to have another go. 
> 
> I'm glad I did. And I'm so very sorry that it's taken this long to finish the tale. Obviously, this is now pretty much AU.

“Those aren’t mine,” William told her. “I found them on the work site, after all the guys had gone home. Meant to bring them back, see who they belonged to. Guess I forgot.” 

She threw the boot, would have hit him with it if he hadn’t batted it to bounce off the wall and land on the carpet between them. “How stupid do you think I am? A pair of brand-new boots, your brand and size, in the box? You just found them on site, and nobody said anything about leaving them behind?”

William’s eyes drilled into hers for a long moment, glittering with malice, and Martha knew it was true. He’d murdered Tansy, murdered the other girls, right here on her property. “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? I told you, Martha. I said you should leave it to the police, but you had to play at being a detective, you and that snooping fairy. Where’d he sneak off to?” 

She shook her head, and if defiance wasn’t prudent it did let her cling to some tattered scraps of pride. “He wasn’t sneaking, he just went back to his hotel. He’s expecting a phone call,” she extemporized. Maybe, if Willam believed his absence would be noticed quickly, he wouldn’t go after the young man. 

“I’ll deal with him later, then.” He elbowed the door shut and grabbed her by both upper arms, forcing her backwards into the bedroom and kicking that door closed, too. With one hard shove he sent her stumbling onto the floor next to the bed. Could she get to the window? He had his back to her, rummaging through her dresser drawer, and she began to edge away. She was just slipping around the footboard when he turned back, hands full of nylon stockings and her treasured Hermes scarf. Dropping them to the floor, he grabbed for the collar of her blouse and dragged her, choking as the fabric pulled tight against her throat, back to the corner of the bedroom. The wind was knocked out of her lungs when he threw her front-first onto the floor and then straddled her thighs to bind her wrists with her own hosiery. She bucked against him, trying to get enough air to scream, and he stuffed the scarf into her mouth. Then his fist slammed into the side of her face, and everything went black. 

~*~

Her cheek throbbed, and her arms sang with fiery tingles. Had she fallen? Or maybe had a stroke? No; she’d been looking for something, in the closet. Something important, to do with William. Something in the fire-box...her passport. Memory flooded over her, and with it the knowledge that she was in danger. She needed to get up, figure out where she was, what was happening. Levering herself up with her arms didn’t work, and her legs seemed likewise immobile. Okay, start small. There were no sounds, no voices or noises to indicate whether anyone was nearby. Eyes, then. She dragged them open, sought anything that would tell her where she’d been taken. 

Pale carpeting, plain white walls, ivory mini-blinds on the windows. There was no furniture, and it took her a moment to recognize that she was in the second bedroom of Tansy’s apartment, the one that faced the back of the building rather than the courtyard. Kicking the wall or breaking out the window were unlikely to attract any attention in such a low-traffic area. Where was William? Her own breathing was the only sound. Was he coming back? The darkness outside the windows gave little clue to how long she’d lain here. Would he wait for the deep hours of the night before...whatever it was he planned to do? 

There was a furtive sound in the car park behind the building. Was it William returning, or someone else? Martha shuffled awkwardly around, drew back her legs as much as she could, and thumped her feet against the wall. The noise wasn’t very loud, and the gag meant she ran out of breath after just a few blows and collapsed sideways onto the cheap carpeting. Right back where she’d started, lying trussed and helpless on the floor. Frustration and fear prickled behind her eyes and she breathed as deeply as she could in an attempt at staying calm. Crying wouldn’t stop William coming back, and she’d not be able to breathe at all if lack of control gave her a stuffed nose.

She didn’t dare to wait for Sherlock to send rescuers; they might not get here in time, if they came at all. For that matter, she might not be able to get away before William came back. Pulling her knees up toward her chest, then pushing with her bound ankles, she inched her way across the floor toward the apartment door. Her shoulders ached within the first couple feet, pulled backwards as they were, friction burns stung where her clothing dragged across the floor. Each pain was a marker, a sign that she still had a chance to escape. Why had William brought her here, instead of to the laundry room? Perhaps he’d gone to clean it out now that his secret had been uncovered. His objection to her interest in the case made so much more sense now; how frustrating, trying to keep his killing a secret from his own crime-show mad wife. 

She was halfway down the short hallway when she heard shouting downstairs, voices raised in officious tones. She began thumping on the wall and floor with her heels, listening for anyone coming up the stairs. Soon, they police were announcing their presence, demanding entrance. Shortly after that, the door to the apartment bounced against the wall and a young police-woman was kneeling beside her. 

“It’s okay, ma’am. We’ve got you.” When they escorted her downstairs to be checked over by the medics, she saw the van that was pulled up next to the other building. And William, being assisted into the back seat of a squad car and driven away. Of Sherlock, there was no sign. 

~*~

After an overnight stay in the hospital, Martha was permitted to return to the apartment, with the instruction that she not leave the state. 

“I don’t know why; I’m given to understand that you can’t be made to testify against him.” Sherlock was sat at her table again, although this time he’d poured the tea for both of them. 

“I don’t know what I’d say, even if I could,” Martha admitted. “I barely remember him striking me, and I don’t really know anything about the murders. Is that awful? That my own husband was killing people right here on my own property, and I never suspected a thing?”

Sherlock sipped his tea and looked thoughtful. “No. He was already adept at hiding his activities from you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your husband was involved with at least two other women. One was trying to set up a distribution network for a drug cartel out of Colombia. He was helping her contact local dealers.” 

Martha shook her head. “And the other one? Just an affair, was it?” She wasn’t sure if that would make it better or worse, but Sherlock was quick to disabuse her of the notion.

“Rival cartel, actually. Playing both sides, I think they call that. Risky. But tell me what you’re going to do now? Will you be staying here?”

Martha stood to collect some biscuits for the already full plate. The cupboard door hid her face when she answered, “No, I don’t think so. My sister, she lives in Sussex, wants me to come home. Of course, I can’t do that until I’ve sold this place. Which might take a while, what with the murders and all. Or maybe not; I suppose there are some people who might think it was exciting, owning a building where a serial killer used to live. Anyway, there’s the whole trial to get through too.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“What is it?”

“I...well. His trial will be expedited. You see, Polly Goldsmith was working for the British security services. Trying to trace the flow of drugs. A bit of complicated trade going on, drugs for secrets and favours.” 

Mrs Hudson put her teacup down with a precise click, picked up the plate and passed it across the table, setting it down forcefully in front of Sherlock. “You lied to me.”

“What was I meant to have said? ‘Oh, hi, I work for the British government, and I’m here to stop your husband selling secrets he shouldn’t have access to. Don’t mind me.’ You’d never have believed it, even if it had been permitted.” 

She gave him an arch look. “I did assume your brother was someone fairly important, if he could afford to send you out here to investigate things. Ridiculous boy.” 

“Yes. Well. The point is, you’ll be free of this place sooner rather than later. And you’ll probably be able to sell the construction company, as well. Unless he had other heirs?” 

“No. If the will I saw is the real thing, I’ll get that too.” 

“The proceeds of both ought to be enough to get a very nice place near your sister.”

Martha picked up her tea cup. “Yes, I think so. And I’m ready for some peace and quiet.”


	8. Chapter 8

Epilogue

Some time later

_Dear Martha,_

_It was nice to see both you and Anne at the holidays. It’s a pleasant little home the two of you have, despite being a bit on the small side for the two of you. I do agree with you on that. And I know you said that you found the village a bit quiet, but it certainly was a charming sight all decorated for Christmas._

_But Martha dear, if you really are as unhappy living with Anne as you said, I may have a solution. There’s a property in central London, two buildings on Baker Street, that is likely to come up for sale very soon. The first building has been converted into two very nice spaces, fit for immediate occupancy. The other has been broken up a bit awkwardly, but is really very livable. The upstairs unit has two bedrooms, and would be suitable for a flat-share arrangement. The lower floor has two small flats, but one is in need of some renovation._

_I do think it’s a prime location, but am unable to meet both the asking price and the likely cost of the remodel. I was prepared to let the whole matter drop, but then I remembered your situation and I thought that, perhaps, you might be interested in a partnership. In addition to a co-investor, I would like to have an on-site landlady, and I think the finished downstairs flat would be comfortable for you. If you think this would be of interest, let me know and I’d be glad to put you up in London for a few days while we sort out the details and draw up the paperwork. There will, of course, be no hard feelings if this isn’t something you’re interested in._

_Whatever you decide, I will remain,  
Your Friend, Marie Turner _


End file.
